Shriveled leaves
tumbled in droves down the street, driven by the chilled winds of an early fall.
Some had been caught in oily puddles then continued to pile up and shiver in
particularly strong gusts. Dusk had already set in, but the streetlights
remained dark, giving the tall man’s surroundings a murky ambiance. Flood
lights bolted to the walls of crumbling cinder block buildings yielded patches
of sickly yellow glow; this made utter darkness a more appealing option. The tall
man pulled his long coat tighter and walked on.
He needed to find a
bar known to locals and lowlifes—one and the same to most people—as Mad Jack’s.
By all accounts he should have already found it. On this street, what
businesses remained hadn’t invested in actual names, as monikers as simple as
Pawn Shop, Market, Irish Market, and Bail Bonds stood out in neon and backlit plastic
signs. Still, the tall man had yet to locate his objective. A car hobbled and
sputtered by, its tailpipe occasionally skipping on the asphalt and kicking up
sparks. “…enough of this.” The tall man muttered, and a streetlight next to him
flickered on, quickly followed by the rest of them.
As if a hidden
pathway had suddenly been illuminated, an intrinsically familiar presence made
itself known. The tall man walked to the nearest intersection and turned left.
There, sticking out like a too-tall book set horizontally on a shelf was Mad
Jack’s. Only the sign read, Jack’s
Family Bar & Grill. “Eh, same thing.” He said, quickening his pace
until he stood on the adjacent sidewalk. The OPEN sign wasn’t on, even if the
posted hours showed it should have been. Shutters on the inside of the door
pointed downward, but light spilled out from between the cracks. He placed his
hand on the cool brushed metal of the door and walked in, a cliché tin bell signaling
that a patron had entered. If a family had ever set foot in there before, it
was certainly the last and only time.
The place was empty,
though a not insignificant amount of shuffling could be heard coming from the kitchen.
The tall man gingerly took a few more steps inward and surveyed the scene. The
stools, booths, and tables hadn’t been disturbed for at least a couple days;
the same could not be said for the myriad bottles of liquor that lined the
mirrored wall behind the bar. A loud crash and louder expletive came from the
kitchen. Moments later, the source of both barged through the swinging door.
“Oh. A customer. I’ll
be damned.” He said, sucking on his index finger. He inspected the finger and,
apparently satisfied, wiped it on his jeans. “Green glass cuts just as neatly
as clear if you weren’t already aware. So what can I get for you?”
“A spritzer, if you’re
able.”
“Well, I’ve had some
tonight already, but I’ll manage.”
“Sorry, I meant if
you’ve got the necessary ingredients.”
“Oh, right.” He
pointed to his obscene liquor collection. “Not the kinda stuff you’d call austere, by any stretch. But I’ve got
what’ll fix ya.” He bent over and rummaged around in a refrigerated cabinet beneath
the bar until he brought up an old bottle of white wine, winking as he set it
to the side. In moments, the drink was made and set firmly in front of the tall
man who sipped it cautiously.
“I must say, this is
rather better than I thought it would be. No offense to you, of course.”
“Oh certainly not,
mister…?”
The tall man paused a
moment, wishing he’d rehearsed more. “Haggard.”
“Ahh, now there’s a name for a place like this.” He laughed harder than
he should have and plucked a bottle with a ripped label from the wall. “Mine’s
Jack, if the faded sign out front hasn’t made that obvious.”
“So you own this
place, yes?” Mr. Haggard asked. He took another sip of his spritzer and gently
set the glass down.
“Ohhh, yeah. Bought,
paid, and ulcer’d for.” Jack took a swig then replaced the bottle, taking down another
random one immediately after. “Keeps a man busy! Wouldn’t you agree, Mr.
Haggard?”
“I would have to
agree, if I’m being honest.”
“Oh yeah?” Jack
downed another gulp. “Honest. Hmm. Alright… but agree? Like you agreed at the
funeral?”
Mr. Haggard pushed
his drink away and stood up. “I’m sure I don’t-”
“Damn right, you don’t!
I might not have said it to the one you’re wearing now, but you agreed to never show your face around me
again.”
Mr. Haggard let out a
deep sigh and waved a hand across his face, revealing a wizened visage and a
trimmed white beard. “I have to speak with you, Jack.”
“You have to get the hell outta here.” Jack
tossed the empty bottle onto the bar and walked to the far side of the room. “Place
is closed.”
Mr. Haggard watched
as Jack went through a creaky door and down a flight of steps. With a flick of
his finger, he locked the entrance then went downstairs as well. Two pool
tables sat crammed together by the far wall, their felt at various stages of
ripped and shredded. A few stained glass lamps hung from the ceiling, but they
offered little light that wasn’t tinted orange or green. Jack stood behind a
minibar, pouring himself a drink from an art deco crystal decanter.
“Now this is the good stuff.” Jack said, his
voice suspiciously calm. “Makes pocketing all those Spanish gold coins worth
it.”
“I didn’t know you
had done that.”
“Not surprising.
Though, really, how else do you think I managed to afford this place?
Inheritance? Low interest loans?” Jack broke into laughter at the last part and
knocked back the dark amber liquor.
“Are you trying to
prove a point? Is that what all this is?”
“There’s nothing to
prove here, old man.” Jack poured himself more bourbon. “This is all a coda
that will eventually eclipse the movement it succeeded. Beethoven would be so
damn proud of me.”
“Oh, I’m certain he
would have been.” Mr. Haggard dusted off a backed stool and sat down on it. “Not
if he saw you now, however.”
“And there ya go,
Merlin! The deaf sonuvabitch won’t ever see
me again because I’m never going
back. And before you ask, yes, that includes everything more than five seconds
ago.”
“There are a lot of
people who would do whatever they could for that kind of gift.”
“Gift? Is that what
you really think?” Jack waved his
hand in dismissal. “Exactly how warped you are I will hopefully never know.”
“The largely
unfulfilled wish to travel to the past, to witness historic events as they
unfold, should not be marginalized in any way.”
"You don't understand!"
Jack shouted, bourbon sloshing out of the glass and onto his trembling hand.
"I was 10 when I met Lincoln--THE Abraham Lincoln--and I could have warned
him!"
"Jack, it doesn't work that way.
Never has."
"You think I don't know
that!?" Jack threw the nearly empty glass against the wall. The shards
reflected what little light there was in the dingy basement. "You think
I'd forget after Pompeii? DO YOU!? They were already dead and they didn't even
know it... they didn't even know..." Jack lifted the crystal decanter,
disappointed, yet unsurprised, to see it empty.
The two men sat in silence, both
unwilling to make eye contact or be the first one to restart the conversation.
The wind blew especially hard outside, making the building’s foundation creak
more than it should have. Dead leaves had collected against the basement window,
forming a crumbling layer that completely blocked a view to the outside. It was
unquestionably a dark night outside regardless.
“How did you know?”
“How did I know what?
That you were you? You’re talking to a guy who was sent all over the world to
solve riddles and puzzles. Seeing through this one was easy.”
Jack disappeared
behind the minibar. Merlin heard the clinking of glass and crystal as the man
he came to see scrounged for another drop of forgetfulness. Raindrops began to
pelt the building, filling the basement with soft echoes that sustained until
they became a unified murmur of static. It had been years—long, dreary years—since
the two men had seen each other last. Now that they were in the same room
together it may as well have been a week that passed, which made the
transformation Merlin saw in Jack all the more discomfiting.
“I think nature sees
through it, too and was trying to warn me. Stupid as that sounds.” Jack said,
reappearing with a can of beer that didn’t react when he opened it. “Huh, flat.
Oh well.”
“You’re right. It
rained then, too.”
“Not what I meant,
but close enough.” Jack pointed at Merlin as he tried to finish off the beer in
one go. He couldn’t. “Firstly, watch your step, gramps. Secondly, I mean the
trees giving up too soon. Leaves don’t just pop off and shrivel up like they’ve
been doing.”
“Indeed they don’t, which
brings me to why I am here.” Merlin stood up and took a cautious step toward
Jack. “Something rather serious has come up that you can help with.”
“Piss off.”
Merlin held up his
hand and took another step forward. “I won’t say you need to come back, but you
will certainly want to if you listen to what I have to say.”
“I said, piss off.”
“Just let me speak.
Annie-” Merlin suspected as much, but he was still caught off guard at the
sight of Jack pointing a revolver at him.
“I’m almost positive
I was clear enough at her funeral.” He fired a round, killing a derelict
pinball machine. “You don’t ever talk to me again and you sure as hell don’t ever say her name. Now I’ve
been pretty lenient about the first rule so far, but you’ve only got another
five words left before I switch gears.”
Merlin looked
unflinchingly at Jack, to the revolver, then back again. Without a word he held
up his index finger to signal he wasn’t up to any funny business. He then loosened
his long coat, reached inside, and pulled out a worn and frayed book. Its spine
curled at the edges and the binding looked fit to fail at a hint of errant breath.
“You can save Annie, Jack.”
to be continued
